


The Yuletide Jobs

by StarlingGirl



Category: Leverage
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Family, M/M, Other, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team dynamics, family bonding, and fluff for Christmas. A drabble a day until Christmas with various pairings or combinations of characters. Includes bad puns (The "It's snow joke" job; the "yule figure it out" job) and a lot of Christmas fuzzies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 'Yule Figure it Out' Job

**Author's Note:**

> Hardison and Eliot have no idea what to get each other for Christmas; they end up getting each other the same dumb present.
> 
> This drabble is shamelessly based off a throwaway comment from the DVD commentary by one of the writers, who said she imagines Hardison and Eliot sharing an apartment with bunk beds and matching NFL sheets.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

It’s Christmas.

In case the incessant festive music saturating the airwaves didn’t give it away, or the twinkle of red, green and white Christmas lights through even the thickest curtains, Parker helpfully serves to remind them several times a day.

(Well, several times an hour. The Christmas hat and the way she lobs candy canes at them from out of nowhere are pretty  _constant_ reminders, in fact — especially for Hardison, who’s not quite as adept at catching them as Eliot.)

In summary — it’s impossible to miss the fact that it’s Christmas.

And that’s fine, that’s not a problem, Hardison’s kind of a fan of Christmas. Only he’s got no  _idea_  what to buy Eliot.

* * *

 

Eliot’s never really  _done_  presents before.

Before this, before he had the team — well, his social life had been more than a little constrained. His brief acquaintances had tended to result in death or disablement, and never on his part. It kinda puts a damper on your Christmas card list. He's not exactly on Christmas terms with his family, either, if he can still call his father  _family._  

And sure, he’s been with this team a good few years now, but it’s only in this year that it’s ever seemed important before; up until now a Christmas meal for them all had seemed to suffice, with Nate or Sophie sometimes handing out presents, but mostly with everyone simply content to just be together. 

Eliot reads people as part of his living — it’s all in knowing who they are, where they’ve come from, what they’re going to throw at him. So presents, well, presents ought to be easy. It's all about knowing what a person likes, what they want, and what they'll respond well to.

Parker likes shiny things, and Sophie likes shoes, and Nate had damn well better like the hand-carved chess set he’d spent a little too long picking out.

And then there’s Hardison, and that’s where Eliot’s bumped into problems. He doesn’t speak  _geek._

* * *

 

"I don’t know what to get you for Christmas, man."

As ever, Eliot gets straight to the point; it’s a hell of a lot simpler than just thinking about it for three weeks and then offending the guy by not getting him anything, and offending Parker in the proces by not properly adhering to the 'rules of Christmas'. 

Hardison places a hand over his heart, manages to look as wounded as Bambi’s mom.

"I see how it is. I  _see._  I worked so damn hard to find yo’ present, and then you turn up with yo’ ‘I don’t know what to get you’. It hurts me, man, right in  _here_ —”

The way Eliot reaches over and casually smacks Hardison upside the head has little force behind it, and is entirely affectionate.

(Mostly. Sort of. If you squint.)

"Hardison, you’ve still got a tell."

The hacker looks like he might protest, but then just looks a little guilty instead, before shrugging a shoulder and letting his hand fall from over his heart back to his side.

"Aight, man. Honest truth, I don’t have a damn  _clue_  what to buy you. You already got all yo’ knives and shit, an’ frankly, I don’t feel comfortable makin’ someone I live with even  _more_ dangerous.”

Eliot fixes him with a  _look_ _,_ but Hardison’s long since become immune to Eliot’s general annoyed demeanor, and merely grins in return, something that might be termed faux-innocent if he'd even vaguely suceeded in pulling it off.

"How ‘bout this — we both buy each other something dumb, don’t matter what, just so we can exchange gifts. An’ it doesn’t matter if we  _like_  it or not. Thought that counts, that’s what nana always said — usually before handin’ me a package containing one ugly-ass hand-knitted sweater.”

It’s a stupid idea, but it’s also an easy solution.

"Fine," Eliot agrees, shortly. "But nothin’ to do with computers."

"It’s a deal."

* * *

 

Parker’s practically  _vibrating_  with excitement as presents are handed around, paper torn, gifts praised or mocked but ultimately treasured, simply because they’re being exchanged amongst family.

Hardison and Eliot toss presents to each other — Eliot catching his smoothly, Hardison fumbling just a little — and both begin to tear them open, fingers working through paper and around tape and—

—there’s a moment of silence before Hardison starts laughing. Eliot’s smile is small, at first, but within seconds he’s chuckling too — staring down at exactly the same NFL bedsheets he’d bought Hardison.

It had been a no-brainer. They watched the football together, sometimes, and the sheets had been stupid enough to fall under the rules of their agreement whilst hinting at some genuine care for time they spend together.

Apparently, Hardison agreed.

"Sweet, man," Hardison’s saying. "Now all we need is bunk beds, and we’ good to go."

It’s dumb, alright. But it’s family, and it’s Christmas, and just this once? Dumb doesn’t seem too bad.


	2. The 'It's Snow Joke' Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate's always been a bit of a Scrooge. Hardison would kind of like it if, just for once, he could admit that Christmas was a time for family, and since they're a little more than just a team, a time for them.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recklessly abusing the falling/catching metaphor, and writing Nate for the first time. Ah, Christmas.

The snow’s come pretty early this year, and for now the city is blanketed in white. Later, it’ll turn to dirty slush under hurried feet and careful tires, get cleared from paths and driveways, lie in grubby-looking piles at the side of the road, but that’s  _later._

Parker’s on the roof, building a snowman and doing nothing good for Hardison’s blood pressure as he stares up at her in concern, as though Parker’s ever fallen off anything in her life.

(He looks a little idiotic, truth be told, wrapped in several coats and scarves, a hat, earmuffs, and his hands stuck under his armpits, peering up into the greyness of early morning and occasionally trying to dance some warmth back into his feet.)

Nate looks a little less concerned with the cold as he strolls up to join him, hands in his pockets as he too fixes his gaze on the small blonde figure on the roof.

"You know, Christmas is—"

Hardison doesn’t let him finish the sentence.

"A joke? A travesty? A commercialization of a pagan blood-sacrifice festival? Yeah, man, we get it. But how can anyone say no to  _that_ face?”

He attempts to gesture at Parker without removing his hands from their warm spot, and ends up vaguely waving an elbow in her general direction instead. Nate tips his head.

"—I was going to say ‘soon’, but at least you were listening to what I said last year."

Hardison fixes him with a suspicious look.

"Oh. Well, yeah, like three weeks, give or take. Ain’t gon’ lie, I swear it was October yesterday; whole damn year’s gone ri _dic_ ulously fast.” Nates nods sagely.

"They tend to do that."

For a few moments, they both stare up at Parker — both start forward with concern as she skips to the edge of the roof, only to see her wave over-enthusiastically and then return to her half-formed snow family.

"Look, Nate," Hardison says, after he’s sure that Parker’s not going to take a dive off the roof. "I  _know_  you ain’t a big fan of Christmas an’ all that. But Parker never really had  _family_  before. Eliot’s been on his own too long. It’s important, y’know?”

It’s important for him, too, though he’ll never admit it. He’s expecting a roll of Nate’s eyes, maybe a grumpy acknowledgment. What he gets is Nate’s gloved hand squeezing his shoulder.

"I know," he agrees, easily and unexpectedly. "Don’t forget that you’re my family just as much as I’m yours." There’s a small smile creasing itself at the corners of Nate’s eyes, and his expression is unusually soft. "I might be Scrooge, but I’m a Scrooge who cares."

Hardison’s smile grows a little, and he nods. There’s something to be said there, some gratitude to be expressed, and he’s opening his mouth to do so when he hears a familiar whoop and his eyes widen in panic. He looks up —

—just in time for Parker to land on him, knocking him backwards into the snow and punching the breath from his lungs. She’s laughing, wildly happy.

Nate smiles down at them both.

"Merry Christmas," he says, and turns on his heel to return inside.

From where he’s lying on his back, cold seeping through his many layers and Parker urging him to make a snow angel from where she’s straddling his waist, he can see five snowy figures on the roof.

Parker hasn’t made any old snow family; she’s made  _theirs._  One of them’s wearing sunglasses, and Hardison has the sneaking suspicion that it’s supposed to be him.

"Merry Christmas," he wheezes belatedly after the already-absent Nate.

This is what Christmas is about.

Okay, not necessarily  _literally_  catching your girlfriend when she throws herself off a three-storey building, but it’s certainly a striking metaphor. Nate’s always been there to keep them together, to catch them when they fall, and they’ve always done the same for him.

_That’s_  what Christmas is about. Being with the people you know will catch you.


	3. The 'Lonely this Christmas' Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since Quinn spent Christmas with anyone else. Which is why it's a surprise when Eliot Spencer comes looking for him -- and this time, without a job offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ship this pairing like burning, and Quinn, despite having 7 minutes of screentime, is one of my favourite characters. I just want two long-haired hitters having adventures together and absolutely refusing to admit that they're boyfriends.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

“I see you’re getting into the Christmas spirit.”

To the casual observer, there might have been no sign that Eliot’s voice had startled Quinn – he didn’t jump or start, or even turn from where he’s sat at a low, rickety table in a cheap motel room, a book splayed out on the table, pages open and spine bent. To Eliot, who’s trained to read people, who has the keenest of eyes, the slight tension that touches the lines of Quinn’s form at the initial sound and drains away again as he classes the other hitter as not being a threat speaks volumes.

“Funnily enough, Christmas isn’t really my kind of thing.”

Quinn’s not sure whether Eliot’s here on business, or whether he missed the memo on the progression of their relationship to one that involves social calls. Either way, he has to wait it out to determine.

“Yeah, me either,” Eliot agrees, and doesn’t wait for an invitation to cross the room, settle himself on the tatty red couch. It’s only once he’s seated that Quinn finally looks up at hi, wry smile curling at the corners of his lips to match the curl of hair that’s tucked, loose, behind his ear.

There’s a raised eyebrow that asks the question on Quinn’s mind without the need for actual words – why is Eliot here, in a shitty Brooklyn motel room, on Christmas Eve, rather than with his team? With his _family?_

Eliot lets out an amused breath, and shrugs a shoulder.

“They’re kids. One of ‘em still believes in Santa Claus, and the other is happy to humour her.”

Quinn nods in acquiescence of the facts, well aware of Parker and Hardison’s characters, despite the short time he’d spent with them.

“So you’re telling me that you wanted to remind yourself that there are people in the world who have no naivety left? Congratulations, you found one.” His tone is rife with dry amusement. “Would you like me to say ‘bah, humbug’, just for effect?”

Eliot scoffs at that, the closest that he’s ever come to real laughter in the time that Quinn’s known him.

“I just thought you could balance things out, is all.”

It takes Quinn a moment to understand what’s being offered, here, something more than just an olive branch. They’d parted on not unfriendly terms after Eliot had hired him for that last job, but certainly not on spending-Christmas-together terms.

It’s been a long time since Quinn was on those terms with anybody.

“I’m not just _coming home with you_ for Christmas, Spencer,” Quinn says after a moment. Eliot’s gaze doesn’t leave his face, not even when Quinn pares down the offer he’s just been given to that almost embarrassingly sentimental core.

“Where else you gonna go?”

Perhaps it’s a little low, as questions go, but the guy’s got a point; all he’s got waiting for him here is shitty cell reception and a frozen meal. At least with Eliot, with the team, he’d have some conversation and a decent meal—

\--but no. It’s not for him, that life. That’s for men who can walk away from the job and what it’s made them, and Quinn has no desire to do either. He’s not ashamed of who he is and what he does; he’s good at it, and he’ll keep on doing it. There’s no place for him on a team.

He shakes his head, and Eliot leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Look, man, you can say what you like, but they kinda like you. Parker thinks you’re a funny guy, still does that trick you taught her with the knife.”

Quinn can’t help but smile a little at that – the woman had been delighted when he’d shown her how to spin the blade between her fingers so that it seemed to climb her fingers like a ladder, had picked it up quickly and repeated it until Hardison had grown a little nervous at the way she’d handled the edged blade.

“Hardison – well, he thinks you’re not bad, despite the punching threats. He’s used to ‘em.”

Quinn’s gaze stays on Eliot’s for another few beats, before his eyes skip away, focus on the bent and broken spine of the book resting on the table instead.

“—and you?” he asks, eyes flickering back to Eliot’s face only momentarily.

And he knows that Eliot can lie as well as the next man, that he may be a hitter but he’s not a half-bad grifter when the occasion calls. But when the man lets a smile tug at one corner of his mouth and says “yeah, I kinda like you too,” Quinn lets himself believe it.

Because it’s Christmas. And because pretending to belong to a family, even just for a little while?

Well, it can’t hurt.

(Besides, there’s the promise of something genuine in Eliot’s smile, a hint that this is something that won’t get packed away with the Christmas decorations. Maybe it’s weird to retain a fascination with a guy who once flat-out beat you in a fair fight, but hitters will be hitters. When you’ve spent your life beating people, there’s always something to be said for the man who beats you. )

“Bah, humbug,” Quinn says, but there’s still that wry little smile curling at his lips as he stands. “I’m not bringing presents.”

Eliot stands, too, and claps a hand onto Quinn’s shoulder, squeezing for a moment before he heads towards the door.

“That’s your choice, man,” he says, over his shoulder. “But I ain’t responsible for Parker’s reaction when you tell her that.”


	4. The 'Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow' Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardison always does what his nana says. Especially when it concerns the people that he loves.
> 
> A vignette on Hardison's first Christmas with nana, and how it changed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mush. Unapologetic mush.
> 
> Also I apologise for nana and my attempts to write young!Hardison. Both were very tricky to transfer from brain to screen.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Hardison protests. “Y’always get to open a present on Christmas Eve!” He’s clutching a poorly wrapped red-and-gold package to his chest as though afraid that Eliot might try and physically take it from him.

“What? Says who? That’s not a thing, Hardison. Put it back.”

Hardison twists his body as if to shield the present from Eliot, and shakes his head vehemently.

“ _Nana_ says so, that’s who,” he says, in a tone of utmost defiance. “An’ I always do what my nana tells me.”

* * *

  
It’s Christmas Eve. It’s the first Christmas Eve in a long, long time that Hardison hasn’t spent in care – eating dry turkey and receiving a half-hearted charity gift, and not really minding too much when it’s nicked by one of the other kids who’s still under the impression that quantity might make up for lack of quality.

She’s nice, the lady who’s taken in him – nana, she tells him, he can call her nana – but he’s known her two months, and he gets the feeling that Christmas is going to be nothing if not awkward. It's not that he doesn't _want_ to be spending Christmas with her. She hasn’t made him do anything he didn’t want to. She hasn’t demanded that they spend time together, or asked him to spend less time in his bedroom, or told him off for asking for seconds.

Which is why, every day, he ends up spending a little less time in his bedroom anyway. He _likes_ nana. She hasn’t asked him to love her, and so – contrary kid that he is – he’s done so. He’d helped her decorate the tree, and he’d told her that, at thirteen, he was too old to write a letter to Santa – but she’d fixed him with a look and told him that _she_ was going to write one, but he was welcome _not_ to.

And so they’d ended up sitting by the tree together, writing letters to Santa together. He’d snuck a glance at her letter, and seen that she’d asked for a new photo frame to put a picture of her and her boy Alec in, and he’d felt a burning surge of happiness, at that. And he’d still got the pocket money she’d been giving him, and now he knew for sure what he was going to spend it on.

A computer, that’s what he’d asked for – because there’d been one at the home, ancient and dated and slow, but he’d learned his way around it and found that it was something he was good at, that he could do well, something that he could understand and control.

When you’re thirteen and you’ve got no family, control is important.

He doesn’t expect one, but there’s something satisfying about having asked, anyway.

And now it’s Christmas Eve and there are presents under the tree, including the one he’d wrapped so carefully himself. But now that it’s there – paper slightly wonky, tape folded under itself – he’s suddenly concerned that it won’t seem like enough, that nana might not like it. He’d even put a picture in it already, one that had been taken a few weeks after he’d arrived here, of a gangly teenage boy who didn’t quite fit himself yet, and an older lady with grey hair who already looks proud of a child that’s not her own. What if she doesn’t like that photo? What if this isn’t what she wanted for Christmas at all?

And yet, that worry is half cancelled out by the awe at the presents under the tree that are for him. He’d felt a little guilty, snooping through the labels, but there were eight for him. _Eight._

For a boy who’d never had much, it’s a treasure trove.

She brings him hot chocolate as they wait for midnight mass on the radio (“too darn cold to go out,” she says. “Ain’t worth the achin’ hip.”) and he eats the marshmallows from the top, gooey on his fingers, and stares at the pile of presents with worry on his face.

And nana, who he’ll later realised could _always_ read him like a book, from the day she met him, nudges his shoulder.

“Go on and pick one, then,” she tells him, and he blinks at her as though she’s just addressed him in some other language, one that he’s never even heard.

“But it ain’t Christmas yet,” he says. She scoffs at that, and sets her own mug of hot chocolate on one of the knitted circles she uses as coasters to protect her old, hardwood coffee table, the one that she treats like it’s made of solid gold.

“In this household, we always get to open a present on Christmas Eve. Just one, mind.” He stares at her a second longer before he slips from the couch and stares at what is, to him, an overwhelming multitude of presents. He’ll leave the big ones until tomorrow, he thinks, and picks up a small package wrapped in green and red.

“I get one too,” she says, with the smile of an old woman who gets to do what she damn well pleases these days. “That one.”

His stomach twists a little as she points at _his_ present, the one he’d chosen so carefully and wrapped to the best of his very limited abilities. With trepidation, he passes it over, and she smiles at him over the top of her glasses as she carefully unwraps the paper, as though it were a work of art and not that of an unsure teenage boy.

When she pulls out the photo frame, photo already in place, she clutches it between both hands as though it’s the most important thing she’s ever held, and her smile suddenly seems a little more watery, as though she might be holding back tears.

“You’re a good boy, Alec,” she says, and pulls him down for a hug that he returns without thinking, where mere months before he might have shied away. “You’re a good boy.” She stands, cursing her hip, and places the frame on the mantelpiece, right next to the photo of a much younger woman with a handsome man who’s no longer in her life. When it’s there, she steps back and nods her head once, twice, surreptitiously wipes her eye under her glasses.

He’s not really sure why she’s crying, and he’s equally unsure why, staring at that photo of himself above the fireplace, he feels a little like crying too.

“Now you,” she says, and he tears open the paper to find a little box. Inside that box, there’s nothing but a handwritten note that says ‘spare room’ in nana’s looping handwriting. He looks at her a little confused and she nods.

He’ll never forget the feeling in his gut as he’d swung open that door and seen the computer that was sitting there. All for him, entirely for him. Nana had stood behind him in the doorway, smiling at the way his eyes had widened, the way he’d pointed at himself with a question on his face, as though she might have bought the computer for some other kid.

“Happy Christmas nana,” he says, and there’s something fierce in his voice as he does. She holds him just as tight, and murmurs something into his ear that will change his life.

“See, Alec. You have the power to make people happy. Thank God every day for your blessings, but know that _you’_ the one with the power to make lives better. Happy Christmas.”

* * *

 

“Hardison, y’ can’t just open a present on Christmas Eve ‘cause you’re too impatient to wait,” Eliot repeats. Parker’s gaze is darting between them as though she’s at a tennis match, waiting to see if _she’s_ allowed to take a present.

“It ain’t _for_ me,” Hardison says, and holds out the present to Eliot himself, who looks surprised. It’s not a common expression for him, and it’s perhaps a little unusual to see. Surprise is quickly replaced with suspicion, and he takes the present as though he suspects Hardison might have booby-trapped it.

“…for me?”

Hardison nods and Parker appears next to Eliot’s shoulder.

“Ooh, what it is? Does it rattle? Shake it!”

Eliot yanks the present away from her questing fingers, shielding it with his body the very same way that Hardison had been doing only moments ago. Fixing Hardison with one final, suspicious look, he tears open the paper, just as carefully as nana had done all those years ago.

It’s a new set of chef’s knifes, top of the range; Eliot had used one of his to fend off an intruder not too long ago and had been complaining that it was dulled and chipped ever since. A tiny smile curls around his lips as he runs his fingers over the handles, and then he looks back up at Hardison.

“Why?”

He’s not sure if it’s ‘why did you get me these’ or ‘why did you want me to open these early’, but either way the answer is sorta the same.

“ ‘Cause you’ my family, and it’s Christmas. An’ I want you to be happy.”

It’s an almost touching moment of rare emotional intimacy between them, aside from Parker tugging on Hardison’s shirt and making “ooh, ooh, me, now me,” noises. He slings an arm around her and turns back to the tree.

“Now you,” he agrees. “Pick a present, any present…”

Nana’s always right. He’s got the power to make the people he loves happy, and he’s damn well going to do it.


	5. The 'Seen one, seen a mall' job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardison and Eliot take Parker shopping for Christmas. There's some struggle to deal with the concept of exchanging money for goods when they're right there for the taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, everyone loves adorable Christmas Parker. I've never really written her much before, and it was... a bit of an adventure. It can be difficult to put yourself in her mindset, for sure.
> 
> Also I'm sorry for the punny nature of these titles getting worse and worse.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

“We should get Sophie something shiny,” Parker says, decisively, throwing an arm over both Hardison and Eliot’s shoulders and pulling them close as though they’re planning something, ignoring entirely Eliot’s attempts to shake her off. “Ooh! The engagement diamonds of Giovanna of Italy are being shown in town! We could steal them _easy_.”

Eliot finally manages to extricate himself from underneath Parker’s arm, and there’s a _dammit, Parker_ dancing on the tip of his tongue. Hardison intervenes before he can voice it.

“Look, babe, since it’s Christmas an’ all, we figured we’d go _shopping_ for Nate an’ Sophie. It’s half the fun.”

Parker looks blank.

“Shopping?” she repeats, suspiciously, as though Hardison has suggested that they undertake some dangerous and unfamiliar task. Hardison nods, repeats the word slowly as though to a child.

“Yeah, shop-ping. Y’know, procuring legally? Exchanging money for goods? Where do you get your cereal from, Parker?” He asks the question as though the answer is obvious, but he’s failed to take into account that Parker is _Parker_.

“From the delivery trucks. Their security is _awful._ ”

This time, Eliot doesn’t hold back.

“Dammit, Parker.” His tone is exasperated, wearied but affectionate.

She shoots him a look, the hand that’s not still draped over Hardison’s shoulder spreading in a gesture of _where else am I supposed to get it?_ Hardison pinches the bridge of his nose, and sets a hand on her waist to guide her towards the door.

“Well, we’ll go an’ find something we think they’ll like, an’ we’ll _buy_ it. Just to change things up, introduce a little variety into yo’ life.” Parker wrinkles her nose unhappily, and manages to get her arm across Eliot’s shoulders again as he nears them. This time, he merely rolls his eyes, slips an arm around her waist to make it a little easier for them to walk like this.

(And if his fingers brush Hardison’s and his thumb makes rubs a smooth little circle on Parker’s back – well, none of them will mention it out loud. They’re pretty good at not talking things through, between Eliot’s secretive nature and Parker’s downright odd one.)

“—but then I’ll have to give someone some of my _money,_ ” Parker says, with a vaguely distressed tone.

“That’s what makes it special,” Eliot points out gruffly. “Shows ‘em how much you care.”

Parker seems to understand that, but it doesn’t keep her from grumbling all the way there.

* * *

 

“It’s – a _waffle iron,_ ” Sophie says, in a tone of measured confusion. She lifts the box, as though she’s expecting to find something else hiding beneath it, a present that might make a little more _sense._ Hardison elbows Parker, who’s glaring at the waffle iron as though it’s done something wrong.

“I bought it,” she blurts out. “With my money. For you.”

“Well that’s – that’s very _sweet_ of you Parker, thank you,” Sophie says, because she’s a grifter, and more than that she’s a grifter who’s been around Parker for years now, and probably has some insight into how the woman’s brain works.

“Well, everyone likes waffles,” Parker points out, “and Hardison showed me a picture on the internet of _rainbow_ waffles once. So I chose it and they said I had to _buy_ it instead of steal it even though it would have been super _easy_ to get it out of the shop. So I did, because it’s Christmas and you matter.”

For Parker, it’s practically an outpouring of emotion, and Sophie’s face reflects that; her face softens and her smile becomes a little more genuine, for all she’ll never use the goddamn waffle iron.

“Parker, that’s lovely. And it means a lot that you’d part with your money for me.”

Hardison bumps Eliot’s shoulder with his own as Sophie and Parker hug, exchange ‘happy Christmas’ with each other as they do so. Eliot’s trying to look annoyed, but he just looks _happy_ , with Parker handing out presents that make no sense, but which mean all the more for it. Eliot gives up, after that, and doesn’t even try to scowl; there’s just a little smile on his face that barely falters when Parker presents him with a gift wrapped in entirely too much ribbon, and then shoves one at Hardison, too.

“I spent more money on you because you matter the most,” she tells them, matter-of-factly, and then spins away to where Nate’s holding out a present for _her_ , that’s undoubtedly another wad of cash, the same as every year, because the old classics are always the best.

And yeah, maybe Hardison ends up with a talking cookie jar in the shape of a muppet, and Eliot with some kind of karate-chopping action figure that Parker will later say that reminded her of him – but the way she’d said that so easily – _you matter the most –_ more than makes up for it.

Besides, everyone loves the muppets.


	6. The 'War is Over' Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn and Eliot are weapons; there's not better way to put it. And yet, they're not quite the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly different tone for this one, but notice I avoided leaving it at the uber-melancholy stage. As ever, just totally in love with this pairing. Follows the 'Lonely this Christmas' job but can be read separately. And yes, I may have stolen a line from Hawkeye.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

Quinn and Eliot, they’re weapons.

There’s no other way to put it; whether there’s a gun in their hand or a blade in their pocket, whether they’re armed or not, they are dangerous. Perhaps they were born into it or perhaps others made them what they are, or perhaps they made themselves deadly.

It's undeniable that deadly is what they are -- and yet, they're not the same.

Eliot, who disarms guns and disables rather than kills, Eliot is a man who tries with every fibre of his being to control what makes him deadly.

Quinn, who hits to kill and carries a gun more often than not, Quinn is a man who has accepted his nature as irredeemable.

And perhaps it’s that which makes all the difference; where Eliot’s a blade that can be used for good or for bad, the very same way he uses his blades to cook, to create, as well as to destroy, Quinn’s a gun without a safety. He’s only good for one thing.

It’s at times like this – watching Parker and Hardison and Eliot together, as Parker adjusts the hideous Christmas jumpers that she’s somehow managed to wrestle them into, the way that Eliot and Hardison look defeated and somehow managed to radiate affection and love and care and _family_ at the same time - that he reminds himself of how men handle guns. How they handle weapons.

How they handle him.

Because first and foremost, he _is_  a weapon. It’s his job. And so he’s handled with the same air of unaffected adeptness by those with the training to handle a gun, the same nervous fear by those without it. They come to him only when he’s needed.

No one ever fell in love with their gun.

He’s so absorbed in that thought that he barely notices Eliot knock a Santa hat away from his head, retreat so that Parker can’t reach him with any more festive adornments. When the man mutters “girl’s crazy” by Quinn’s side, he starts.

It’s natural instinct once you’ve been in the game this long; anything that surprises you is a threat until you’ve proved otherwise. Hence the tension in his muscles and the curling of fists for a mere second before his brain kicks in.

Eliot fixes him with a look, at that.

“Y’can relax here, man,” he says, which is a thousand times easier said than done; Eliot may have convinced him to spend Christmas here, but he’s felt out of place and awkward ever since he arrived – like he’s intruding on something that doesn’t belong to him.

A wry smile curves across his lips.

“My life as a weapon,” he responds, with a shrug, rolling his shoulder to ease the tension from it that lingers despite the knowledge that this isn’t a job, that he’s with people he can trust, and who trust him in return.

Eliot’s face has always been a little hard to read to those who didn’t understand it – but they’re men who understand each other all too well, and he can see the touch of pity in Eliot’s eyes, pity that Quinn hasn’t made it out, hasn’t found this. It jars him in a way it shouldn't. Quinn has long since ceased to seek solace or worth in the emotions of others. Or at least, he thought he had.

Then again, he’d never thought himself unlucky until he’d worked with the team.

“Not today,” Eliot says, voice gruff. Quinn raises an eyebrow in place of a question.

“Not here, not today,” Eliot repeats. “It’s Christmas. You’re with friends. You don’t have to be anything but _happy_ , man.”

They’re simple words, but they’re combined with a step closer, with a steady gaze, with the brush of fingers against Quinn’s hip that’s so unexpected he can barely restrain the tension from flowing back into his form once more.

(Understanding blossoms, then; Hardison and Parker may not treat Eliot as a weapon, but he still treats himself as one. Quinn is not here because Parker or Hardison wanted him, regardless of their delight when he’d showed up, regardless of the way they’d greeted him like an old friend. He was here for Eliot, because what damage can a gun and a blade do to each other?)

There’s something akin to a frown on Quinn’s face – eyebrows drawn and throat constricting as he swallows, and his eyes flick down to where Eliot’s fingers have hooked themselves into a belt loop, anchored them together, weapon to weapon.

He nods once, barely, and it’s a testament to the fact that they’ve always known how to speak volumes to each other without words. Eliot’s fingers tighten, a smile dawns on his face, just for a moment, and his hand leaves Quinn’s beltloops, presses itself splayed wide at his waist for a moment before he turns away, everything said that needs to be said.

In one fell stroke, Quinn is disarmed.

And it makes sense, really – Eliot’s always disarmed guns when he finds them. Eliot’s always proved that a weapon need not always be a weapon.

 


	7. The Mistletoe Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parker kisses Hardison because she cares about him. She knows that Hardison cares about Eliot, and Eliot cares about Hardison - so what's with their reluctance to kiss under the mistletoe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anon prompt at tumblr. As you may have noticed, get-together fic is not my usual jam, but I tried. I TRIED.
> 
> Have a prompt or pairing you want to see written? Come and tell me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

“No way, man,” Hardison is saying as he follows Eliot through the door. “Do you even _remember_ what happened last time you decided we were gon’ go fishin’? ‘Cause it involved guns! A lot of guns!”

Eliot casts a frustrated look at Hardison, the kind that suggests that he needs to stop overreacting at the mere presence of firearms in his immediate vicinity.

“Look, it ain’t rocket science, and y’gotta leave your little computer screens at _some_ point--”

The argument would have doubtless continued if Parker hadn’t chosen that exact moment to materialise in front of them, hook a hand around each of their necks, and proceed to knock their heads together hard enough for Hardison to stagger backwards a little, hand flying up to his forehead.

“What the hell, Parker?” Eliot demands, his own hand clutched just above his eye.

Parker points upwards.

“Mistletoe,” she says happily, as though she hasn’t just physically assaulted them both. Hardison stares up at the plant accusingly, blame apparently bypassing Parker and resting solely with the Christmas abomination that’s been taped to the doorframe.

“I think that involves kissing, Parker, not _concussion._ ” Eliot’s tony is gruff and he continues to rub the spot where Hardison’s solid skill had connected with his own. “There’s something wrong with you.” He goes to move past Parker, to retreat to the safety of his kitchen, where Hardison and Parker aren’t allowed when he’s cooking, thank you very much, but she blocks his escape, chin tilted and arms folded.

“Well?” she demands.

“Well what?” Hardison asks. “I can’t follow yo’ silent logic since you killed off a nice chunk of my brain cells.”

Parker raises a stern eyebrow, and points at the mistletoe; Eliot and Hardison follow the direction of her finger and take a perfectly timed step away from each other with variations on a theme of “hell, no” spilling from their mouths.

Parker frowns, and places her hands on her hips, and taps her foot. As though she can cow them into partaking in the most ridiculous and awkward of Christmas rituals.

“No,” Eliot says, “absolutely not. Kiss Hardison under your goddamn mistletoe.”

Parker throws her hands up as Eliot shoulders past her, even as Hardison expresses his agreement with Eliot’s idea by waggling his eyebrows and tugging at her belt.

“I don’t get why you two won’t just kiss already!” Parker exclaims, and it’s such an expected thing to fall from her mouth that Eliot stops, turns, question already on his lips. But the thief isn’t going to let it go. “Hardison and I kiss, right? And it’s because he’s special, and I care about him. Well Eliot’s special, and I care about him too – and you two both care about each _other_ , so why won’t you just admit it?”

There’s a brief silence where each man tries to decide the best angle to approach this.

“That’s not how things work, Parker,” Eliot says, and perhaps there a little tightness in his voice there, something that might just about be termed regret at that conclusion. “It’s different.”

Parker fixes him with a look, a wide-eyed, slightly hurt look that’s a surprisingly powerful weapon that Parker doesn’t quite know that she wields. But it’s not from her that the expected protest comes.

“Why not, man?”

Hardison’s still got an arm around Parker’s waist, but he’s looking at Eliot with a slightly defiant tilt to his jaw, and the hitter visibly balks at finding himself two-against-one. If they were throwing punches, he wouldn’t consider himself at any sort of disadvantage, but here? He’s a little out of his depth.

“Because it’s not – people don’t do that.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, entirely avoiding the whole issue of whether or not he _wants_ to.  Parker, sensing his reticence, takes a step forward; Hardison lets his hand fall away from her side.

“People don’t steal either. Or hack. Or hit. People don’t help people like we do. But it works for us, right?”

Eliot ought to be able to find some argument in response to that, but instead he just opens his mouth, and closes it again, and casts a betrayed look a Hardison for siding with Parker in her madness. But then Parker reaches out and takes his hand, and he doesn’t resist, for all that his facial expression is uncharacteristically and openly unsure.

Step by step, as though she’s leading a scared animal, she moves back towards Hardison, pulling Eliot after her.

“Mistletoe,” she says. “Kiss. Merry Christmas.”

Eliot opens his mouth to say something, but then Parker pushes up onto her tiptoes, and presses a kiss to his cheek that seems to silence him abruptly. She smiles at him, and then turns to Hardison, kisses his cheek as well.

Hardison raises an eyebrow, expectantly, holds out a hand.

“Don’t man, no – no, this is awkward, don’t – don’t do that--”

“Shut up,” Hardison replies, rolling his eyes and grabbing that hand that’s not still in Parker’s. Eliot scowls at that, but his fingers still lace between the hacker’s, squeeze for a moment perhaps just a little too tight before the relax.

“Mistletoe,” Hardison says, repeating Parker, and then he’s in Eliot’s space, ducking his head slightly to press his lips against the hitter’s, just a chaste brush of lips that nevertheless seems to draw something out of Eliot, seems to drain the tension from his muscles. “Kiss,” Hardison adds as he steps back and takes Parker’s hand, so that the three of them are in a circle.

“Merry Christmas.”

Parker laughs, then, wild and high and delighted, and throws herself at them both, so that they’re both forced to catch her as she wraps her arms around them and pulls them both tight. Another kiss pressed to their cheeks, exuberant and more than a little content, and she’s bouncing away, the notes of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ echoing back at them throughout the apartment.

Hardison smiles after her, slides his hands into his pockets, and when he turns his head, he finds Eliot staring intently at him.

“What?” he asks.

“You know this,” Eliot gestures broadly, between them and Parker’s general direction, “is ridiculous?”

Hardison laughs, shrugs a shoulder.

“Know what’s ridiculous? Fishin’.”

And then they’re back, right where they left off, as Eliot scowls and continues to insist that it’ll do Hardison _good_ to be outdoors, that there’s nothing better than fishing once you settle down and it’s just you and the pull of your line.

Right where they left off, but standing a little closer, a little more sure. It’s not exactly a Christmas _miracle_ , given that they’ve been careening towards this point for _years,_ given that not much will actually change.

But even Eliot is hiding a smile underneath that scowl of his. It’s Christmas, and they’re special, and they care.


	8. The Cookie Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot makes Christmas cookies, and forbids Hardison and Parker from eating them. So of course, when he checks back in half an hour...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Wasa. This one's literally ridiculous. I don't even know.
> 
> As ever, collecting prompts at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

They’re used to the place smelling like pan-seared scallops, or slow-roast pork, or fresh, homemade pasta – it’s just one of the advantages of living with Eliot. Anytime he wants to add something to the menu, he tests it out on the team first.

And okay, Parker’s not really one for in-depth and thoughtful taste analysis, and Hardison has the diet of a fourteen year old video-game addict, but they’ll still either love it or hate it, and for anything slightly more useful, there’s Nate and Sophie.

Today, though, it smells like _baking._ Not cooking, not a meal – it smells like fresh-baked cookies, like warm chocolate, and cinnamon.

Which is why, unsurprisingly, Parker and Hardison both seem to end up in the kitchen, where they find Eliot transferring cookies from a baking tray to a cooling rack, dishcloth slung over his shoulder and quick fingers steadying still-hot cookies on a silicone spatula. He pauses, narrows his eyes at the hacker and the thief loitering in the doorway like a pair of street kids hoping that their big, innocent eyes might win them some food.

“No,” he says, brandishing the spatula at them firmly. “These ain’t for eatin’ now.”

Parker manages to look physically wounded at that, and Hardison frowns a little.

“You made, like, a _thousand_ ,” he points out with his usual degree of precision and accuracy. “Surely you ain’t gon’ miss one or two?”

Eliot snorts at that, and returns to transferring cookies to the cooling racks he’s laid out on the countertops, already littered with the star-shaped confections, laid out in neat rows and awaiting icing.

“No,” Eliot repeats, without even a hint of hesitation. “’Cause you’ll eat one, then you’ll have another, then before I know it, all my goddamn cookies will be gone before I’ve even iced ‘em.”

Parker’s expression morphs from hurt to offended.

“What if we promised?” she asks, daring to sidle a few steps further into the kitchen, into Eliot’s realm. “Pinky-promised? What if I swore on Hardison’s laptop?”

Hardison makes a noise like a narwhal choking on a chew-toy, and presses a hand over his heart as though he’s suffering from some kind of cardiac palpitation.

“I know you did _not_ just say that,” he demands. “I know my ears must be playin’ tricks on me, because I _told_ you that you could only do that in an emergency. Like, when someone’s _dying._ And I see a lot of cookies, but I don’t see nobody _dying._ ”

She waves a hand at him that’s not quite an apology and more like a dismissal, and turns an angelic smile on Eliot as she advances even further, stopping abruptly when Eliot brandishes the spatula once more.

“No, means no, Parker. You can eat some of ‘em later, when I put ‘em out for the Christmas party.”

It’s not so much a party as a chance for Eliot to display his latest menu to customers, for them to launch their new brews. Because no matter how much this place had just been intended to be a front, they’d come to care about the microbrewery-turned gastro-pub.

Parker scowls, and for a moment it looks like she might even stamp her foot – but instead she murmurs “soon” at the cookies before she retreats to the doorway, dragging a reluctant Hardison from the room with her.

Hardison’s mostly asleep on the couch with Parker perched across his legs when the “dammit, Hardison!” causes him to start upright, almost tipping Parker off the couch.

“What did you do this time?” she asks, idly, as she lifts her legs to allow Hardison to stand. He does so, wide-eyed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know, man. Nothing, I ain’t done nothing!”

Eliot, when he comes through the door, seems to think differently;  Hardison holds up his hands in a gesture of peace, but the hitter heads straight for him. There’s nothing but the couch with Parker on it between them, and Hardison circles the couch in the opposite direction from Eliot, trying to get away, reversing directions quickly when the hitter does so.

“I’m gonna kill you, man,” Eliot’s saying even as Hardison is trying to work out if a quick sprint will get him past Eliot and out of the door, or if he’s destined to die here, a week before Chrsitmas, in front of the giant portrait of old Nate.

“What’d I do?” Hardison demands wildly. “I’m innocent, this is just racial profilin’--”

Eliot growls, and vaults the couch instead of trying to chase Hardison around it; the hacker squeaks, and takes a few stumbling steps backwards.

“You must have done something really bad,” Parker says, cheerfully, a five-digit combination padlock held up to her ear as she listens for the click of the tumblers that will tell her that she’s got the right combination. Eliot turns, angry scowl painted across his face, and points at Parker.

“Don’t get me started on you,” he growls, and Parker freezes, fingers stilling in their quest to pick the lock held by her face.

“—what did _I_ do? I haven’t broken into your room since Thursday!”

“Don’t think either of you can play innocent, I ain’t dumb, I know—what do you mean, since Thursday?”

Hardison’s using the distraction that Parker’s providing to edge his way towards the door; he loves Parker, he does, but sometimes a guy has just got to save his own ass when he can. Or at least, he’s got to _try_ – his plan is foiled when Eliot turns to him again, fixes him a look that means that he doesn’t actually have to verbalise the words “don’t you dare”.

“Aight, look – whatever it is you think we did, man, we didn’t do it. We been here the whole time.”

Eliot’s not even close to believing that.

“Oh, and I suppose all my goddamn cookies just got up and _walked_ out the kitchen, huh? That what happened, Hardison?” Hardison, who for once in his life isn’t blatantly lying when he protests his innocence, raises a hand.

“Whoa, man, whoa. We didn’t take yo’ damn cookies. ”

Eliot opens his mouth to refute Hardison’s statement, still pointing at the hacker, when they all turn at the sound of Nate’s voice.

“Don’t you all ever get tired of _fighting_?”

There’s a long moment of silence, during which Nate takes another bite of the cookie in his hand. The quiet is complete enough that they can hear him chewing, and also hear the way the quiet rage is building up inside Eliot.

Hardison takes a step back. Parker scampers over to Hardison from the couch, peering out from behind him.

Eliot exhales slowly, and then his teeth are bared in an angry grimace.

“Are you serious?! I expect it from these two, but I thought you were a goddamn grown-up!”

Nate smiles mildly at Eliot, and pops the last piece of the cookie into his mouth before wiping the crumbs from his fingers against his leg. Parker and Hardison exchange glances, and make the simultaneous decision to move in tandem towards the kitchen, where there might be a few cookies left. And if Eliot doesn’t know how many are missing, he won’t miss two more.

“Well, I had to make sure they were okay,” Nate says. “But you never can just stop at one.”

Eliot’s hands curl into fists, his mouth working angrily around curse-words he’s trying not to say out loud. Eventually, he fixes Nate with a glare and a point, and an “I’ll deal with you later” before he stalks back towards the kitchen.

Nate waits one second, two, head cocked, chuckling out loud when he hears Eliot’s voice.

“ _Dammit Hardison!”_

Ah, family at Christmas.


	9. The 'Home for Christmas' Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot's managed to convince Quinn to come for Christmas, but can he convince him to stay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tigerlilyschild, thank you for the prompt! I promise this started as a drabble. I think we can learn two things from this: one, my titles are getting less and less creative day by day, and two, I have far too many Quinn feels to exist. I have extensive headcanons about his past, and hopefully at some point I'll be able to fic them, with bonus hitter boyfriends.
> 
> This is a continuation of Quinn/Eliot drabbles earlier in this collection, but can probably be read as a standalone.
> 
> As ever, feel free to prompt me at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com/ask

It’s Christmas Eve when Quinn begins to panic, in his own quiet way.

It’s hardly a surprise, given the nature of his job, that outwardly not much changes; you gain nothing in his line of work from letting your opponent know your thoughts. Perhaps there’s a little more tightness around his eyes and mouth, perhaps that wry humour of his drops back a little.

Whatever outward signs there are, of course it’s Eliot that picks up on them.

“What’s eatin’ you?” he demands, having managed to corner Quinn in the kitchen while Parker and Hardison argue over whether to leave out the traditional carrot for Santa’s reindeer, or the less traditional but far tastier slice of Eliot’s lemon meringue pie.

Quinn shakes his head, but Eliot’s not deterred that easily; he crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow, and shifts in such a way that suggests that he’s quite prepared to wait here the whole damn night if he has to. He’s used to protecting people, now, it’s what he does – and that doesn’t mean merely keeping them from physical harm, but also being the one to notice that there’s something wrong, the one to get straight to the point and find out what it is. And Quinn – even if he only stays for these few Christmas weeks and disappears back to his own world after the lights and the decorations are taken down – well, Eliot’s damn well counting him as part of the team.

(And a part of that, no doubt, is the desire to pull the man away from the same life that Eliot had once lived, to save him from that same dark place that Eliot had inhabited. The place that men like Quinn don’t realise they need saving from until they’re out, or dead.)

“I don’t belong here,” Quinn says, after a mere ten seconds of Eliot’s steady and unwavering gaze. The others have built up a bit of immunity, but the second hitter hasn’t had the time. His voice is quiet, the words stated as a fact. This place is a place for Eliot, and his family. For the good guys. Quinn may have helped them, once, but one good deed does not a sinner save.

Eliot sighs, and his crossed arms drop to his sides.

“I told you, man. They like you. They want you here. We all do.” A smile tugs at Quinn’s mouth, at that, the merest twitch of one corner of his lips.

“I’m sure there are other people you all like. They’re not in your home for the holidays.”

It’s infuriating, really, that Eliot has to deal with so many people who are so brilliant at what they do, and yet manage to have not an ounce of emotional intelligence or common sense between them. Some days, he feels like just banging their heads against the wall.

“Look, Quinn. There’s always a place for you here.”

The implication is unspoken, there – that Quinn could stay, if he wanted. That this doesn’t have to be _just for the holidays,_ that he can be a part of a team and a part of a family. They’ve always had one hitter, one thief, one hacker, one grifter, one mastermind – but with Nate and Sophie gone, it’s not like they couldn’t do with another. After all, Eliot’s ended up grifting on a job more times than he can count now, and he’d always feel better knowing there’s someone to look after Hardison and Parker, to keep everyone safe.

Quinn can’t meet his eyes. Apparently, the other hitter suddenly finds the kitchen floor intensely interesting.

“I can’t,” he murmurs, the answer to a question that hadn’t really been asked. There’s something there – some reason behind Quinn’s resistance, something that Eliot doesn’t quite understand – but it’s neither the time nor the place to push further. “Eliot, this is stupid. I don’t even have presents.”

Eliot snorts, at that.

“That what this is about? Told you man, it don’t matter.”

Quinn’s head turns, he leans forward a little so that he can peer through the doorway, to where Parker is running delighted fingers over the gifts under the tree, cheeks pink and eyes bright and smile fixed firmly on her face. Eliot, distracted for a moment by Quinn leaning into his space, takes a few seconds to follow his gaze.

He understands. There’s something powerful about Parker’s childlike joy at all this, at Christmas; the idea of letting her down in any way is almost painful. Like kicking a puppy.

“You know,” Eliot says. “The thing about Parker? She’s pretty easy to buy for. So to speak.”

After all, there’s nothing more that Parker loves more than money, and Quinn? Well, given his profession, Quinn’s not exactly poor.

* * *

 

There’s wrapping paper pretty much everywhere, littering the floor; Parker’s surrounded by trinkets and shinies and a whole array of bizarre and yet somehow fitting gifts from Hardison and Eliot, who received some pretty strange gifts of their own from Parker.

Quinn had leaned against the wall, a little removed from the group, and watched with a small, curling smile as Parker had decimated the wrapping, had thrust packages at Eliot and Hardison and clung to them as they opened them. It would have been impossible not to smile, watching the expressions on their faces, the way they were together.

And then Parker had looked over at him and said “well? You don’t want yours?” and Quinn had opened his mouth, shut it again, glanced at Eliot and received only a grin and a nod in return.

So here he is, approaching the three of them almost cautiously. Eliot pulls him down onto the couch, continuing the trend of ignoring the concept of personal space entirely, and Quinn somehow can’t find the motivation to move or protest. So he sits there, leg pressed against Eliot’s, as Parker presents him solemnly with a present and explains it’s from all three of them.

(And he might look a little apprehensive, but that’s only because he’s god no goddamn clue what to expect, not even a little.)

When he opens it, he can’t help the low chuckle that falls from his lips. It’s a coffee mug, a huge one, the same kind that he’s seen them drinking from around the place. The words ‘Leverage Inc.’ are emblazoned across the side. Parker’s grinning from where she’s knelt on the floor, leaning forward with a hand on Quinn’s knee to steady herself.

“See? So that every time you drink coffee, you can think about us!” she grins, and Quinn’s smile widens a little more at her enthusiasm. “Eliot says you drink enough coffee to energize a small city, so we got a big one.”

Quinn glances at Eliot in surprise, at that; he knows that the hitter is observant – it’s part of his job, after all – but it hadn’t occurred to him that Eliot might be observing _him_ well enough to know his habits.

“Thank you,” he says, and despite the amusement in his tone, it’s obvious that the words are genuine. Hardison grins, lands a punch on his shoulder that Quinn raises an eyebrow at, starts to return in kind, laughing and dropping his fist when Hardison leaps off the couch at the abortive movement.

“Ay, man. Not cool. If y’all need me – tough. I got new toys to play with.”

Hardison’s quick to disappear, armful of shiny new tech clutched close and Parker close on his heels, and Quinn watches them go.

“Let me guess who gets to clear up,” he says, idly. Eliot snorts even as he’s pushing himself of the sofa, kicking pieces of wrapping into something that might approximate a pile.

“Yeah, no surprises there.” Quinn, still looking in the direction of where Parker and Hardison disappeared, pushes himself to his feet.

“I’ll help you in a minute,” he assures Eliot, and then he disappears himself.

* * *

 

He finds Parker in the kitchen, perched on the counter and eating distressingly colourful cereal from a bowl. He smiles at that, and at the way that she rapidly abandons the bowl to one side when he holds up the hastily wrapped box. She stretches her hands out like a child, and really he can only oblige.

“It’s not much,” he warns her in advance as tears into the paper.

“It’s a _present_ ,” she corrects him. “Everyone loves presents, even if there’s nothing inside them.”

Quinn’s not sure that’s entirely true, given some of the truly hideous presents he’d received as a child and been less than pleased with, but he’s not going to argue the point with the thief.

She shakes the plain box when it’s revealed – rescued from Eliot’s piles of rubbish and reused – and then slides the lid off.

Her face lights up, and that sets something warm burning behind Quinn’s sternum; the woman’s happiness is one of the most immediately infectious things he’s ever experienced. Really, it’s no wonder that her team, her _family,_ are so protective of her.

“Bunnies!” she exclaims, lifting one carefully from the box. “Bunnies made of _money!_ ”

It’s a trick he’d learned a long, long time ago, and which had never quite left him. Usually, he folds the little animals from dollar bills, but for Parker there’s a whole family, one little rabbit for each bill from one to a hundred.

And judging from the way she carefully places them to one side before flinging her arms around her neck, so that Quinn is forced to catch her entire weight as she slides from the counter, a rush of air that’s half laughter and half breath being knocked from his lungs escaping his lips.

“Merry Christmas,” she says, fiercely. Before he can return the greeting, she’s speaking again, face buried against his shoulder. “I know Eliot says we’re not supposed to talk to you about it, but I think you’re a good person. Bad people don’t make Christmas bunnies, and Eliot wouldn’t like you if you were a bad man. And I don’t understand why you don’t stay with us, because you should.”

It’s a rush of words, all running together, and Quinn can only close his eyes against the thief’s outburst, squeezing her a little tighter before he lets go.

_Bad people don’t make Christmas bunnies._

If only the world were that black and white, as simple as it is in Parker’s mind.

“It’s not quite that easy,” he says, softly. “But hey, even if I don’t stay, I’ll be visiting.” She nods at that, a little tight-lipped, and to be honest Quinn hadn’t been intending on doing anything of the sort right up until this moment.

And this is the problem with Eliot and Hardison and Parker, with this defiant little self-made family. They got under your skin, more quickly than you’d like, and they stayed there.

“Merry Christmas,” he tells her, and she scoops up her box of bunnies, holding them to her chest as though they were actual small animals that needed her care and protection, and gives him one last, small smile before she’s gone. He has no idea what she’ll do with the rabbits – if she’ll keep them or stash them or what – but the look on her face when she’d seen them had been enough.

Eliot finds him, ten minutes later, still standing in exactly the same place, hands in his pockets and a frown creasing the forehead between his eyes.

“Nice origami skills,” Eliot says, dryly. “Parker showed me. You’re just full of surprises.”

Quinn acknowledges Eliot’s words only with a tilt of his head, a shrug of his shoulder. He’s sunk deep in thought, and right now it wouldn’t even take Eliot to tell just from looking that he’s struggling with something in his own mind.

Quinn starts at the touch of Eliot’s hand at his hip, looks up to find the hitter standing mere inches away. There’s still something unspoken between them – something discussed only in brief touches, in long gazes, in not so many words, and Quinn’s breath hitches a little at the contact. He couldn’t stop himself leaning into the touch if he tried.

“I don’t know what it is that stops you from just walkin’ away, from stayin’,” Eliot murmurs. “But we’re--”

He pauses, mentally adjusts his sentence.

“— _I’m_ here. I can wait. Or help.”

This is something different entirely than last time, not quite the same question. This isn’t _stay for us_ , it’s _stay for me._

“Some things you can’t help,” Quinn says, with a smile that’s a little sad. “You of all people should know that.” Eliot regards the other hitter steadily – the eyes that are hiding some kind of hurt, the curl of hair escaping from behind his ear. “I should go.”

“Don’t you dare.”

The words are out of Eliot’s mouth almost embarrassingly fast, but there’s no trace of that embarrassment on his face.

“Don’t you dare. Not today. Not this soon.”

He tugs Quinn a little closer, and Quinn’s powerless to resist. They’re face-to-face, practically no space in between them. They’ve been here before, eye-to-eye, but last time they were throwing punches. Here and now, there’s no sign that they’re each as deadly as the other.

“Two more days,” Quinn says, finally, with a sigh. The entire argument had occurred there, in that silence, in that space where they understand each other a little too well. “Then I have to get out of here. Get back to – things.”

He doesn’t want to say it out loud. He’s not ashamed of what he does, but he can’t help be a little reticent around so many _good guys_.

“Two days,” Eliot agrees. There’s another brief silence, and then Quinn pulls back a little, looks at Eliot with an expression of amused disbelief.

“—did you just grab my ass?” he demands. Eliot’s lop-sided smile is paired with a wink, and really, it’s no surprise that the hitter has had such an extensive string of women (and men) fall readily into his bed.

“Might’ve done,” he says, in a faux-innocent tone that’s fooling no one. Quinn opens his mouth, closes it again.

“I’m not even sure how to react to that.”

“Most women leave with him at that point,” Parker says helpfully from about three inches behind Quinn’s ear, and the two hitters separate themselves about as quickly as humanly possible; they each have guilt and defiance plastered across their faces in equal measures. Parker, who doesn’t seem to think anything particularly strange is going on, reaches between them and picks up the cereal she’d abandoned earlier, shovelling a spoonful in her mouth before she wanders away again.

There’s a silence, as awkward as it is complete.

“Twenty pounds of crazy,” Eliot mumbles after a few moments, and Quinn snorts.

“Only twenty?”

Eliot grins at that.

“Hey, she may be crazy,” he allows, “but she’s _ours_.”

This is going to bite him in the ass, later, the way that Quinn’s pulse seems to flutter just a little faster at the way Eliot’s eyes are so thoroughly fixed on him when he says the word _ours_. But he’ll deal with that in two days.

For now, he’s family.


	10. The 'Deck the Halls' Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parker decorates the tree. Eliot helps, a little unexpectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, apologies for that, exam in a couple of days. Parker and Eliot, great pairing. As ever, prompts accepted at captaindiscipline.tumblr.com

Decorating the tree is always Parker’s job.

Not because no one else wants to do it, per se, but because generally they’re less willing to fling priceless trinkets and jewels onto a tree and call it decorated. They’re happy to leave Parker to fish out her favourite stolen pieces, to retrieve the brightest jewels from her stashes, wherever they may be, and drape them across the fresh green pine that Eliot had dragged up there a couple of days before.

Parker’s been itching to start decorating, but Eliot’s been keeping her from started until the tree has dried out and had time to settle. After all, it’s one thing your Christmas decorations getting damp, but quite another allowing moisture to gather in the settings of a rare canary diamond.

But now he can’t put her off any longer, and she’s already got a pile of glittering jewellery sitting on the table and twitchy fingers that are currently engaged in prodding a small, fading bruise on Eliot’s upper arm.

“Jesus, okay, Parker!” Eliot exclaims eventually, swatting her hands away and pushing himself a little further down the couch in an attempt to escape from that insistent poking. “Y’can decorate the goddamn tree already, just _quit poking me._ ” Parker’s face breaks into a grin and she’s on her feet in a moment, fingers lacing themselves through chains of pearls and diamonds and rubies.

“Get the star, Eliot,” she says, humming whilst she adjusts an emerald bracelet on a branch.

“What star, Parker? You’re covering the tree in _jewellery._ ”

She waves a vague hand behind her, and Eliot turns to see a star-shaped ornament carefully placed in tissue paper on the coffee table. It’s solid cold, and so encrusted with jewels that Eliot’s not sure the tree will hold its weight; it looks as though it used to top a sceptre of some kind.

He hefts it in a hand, brings it over to her, fingers brushing against her waist to let her know that he’s close.

“Go one then,” he says, and there’s fondness in his tone as he holds it out.

“Me? That’s your job,” she says absently, hanging a pair of earrings just below a delicate tiara that’s been hooked on a branch. He frowns a little, fixes her with a confused look.

“What?”

“Putting the star on is your job,” she repeats, as though this is a known fact and not something that she appears to have just made up. She makes no move to take the star from him, so, after a moment, he sighs a little, and disappears to drag a chair over. For a moment, while he’s stood on it, he’s not sure the tree is going to be able to bear the thing’s weight, but then branch settles and though it’s a little lopsided, it holds.

“Good enough?” he asks, as he steps off the chair, tips his head critically. Parker steps back and the look on her face when she sees the glint of the lights on the gold ornament atop the tree is one of genuine joy.

“It’s perfect,” she breathes, her smile widening impossibly further. Eliot’s so busy looking at the bizarre tree – complete with some of the world’s most priceless jewels and trinkets, bending at the top from the weight of its centrepiece – that Parker pressing a kiss against his cheek is a surprise.

“Merry Christmas, Eliot,” she whispers.

Before he can react – before he can wrap an arm around her or press a kiss to her own, rosy cheek, she’s gone again, fingers pulling more sparkling pendants from pockets and god knows where to hang on the tree.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbles, under his breath.

He hadn’t been planning to stay and watch Parker finish decorating the tree, but now? Well, what else is there to do?


End file.
